how true it is...
i found this on rumandmonkey.com... its a random article i opened up, and i thought you might just enjoy it as much as i did (this i very doubtful... it made my f-ing day). have fun!!
"She's got great tits. I mean, really, great tits."
Mobile phones are great inventions. Useful to the core, they let you phone anyone from anywhere, and have therefore liberated a whole generation of people; to a certain extent they've even made them safer. Perhaps more importantly, though, they've given us an opportunity to eavesdrop the previously private conversations of people around us. Thanks to those bundles of Finnish plastic joy, we can understand our society just that little bit better - often against our will. In trains and buses we are captive audiences for inane conversation.
I've been spending a lot of time on trains lately. Listening to a lot of conversations.
"I want to do her in the arse," the overweight Londoner two rows down from me concluded, inbetween puffs on his seventh cigarette since leaving Kings Cross station. "I think I've got a chance, too ... yeah, tomorrow night when we go out. I've just got to make sure I get her really drunk ... I think she'd be up for it, ha ha ... You dirty bastard." His ringtone was a Nokiatised, bloopy version of Dueling Banjos. Not only this, but he sang along to it as it rang.
Lately I've been thinking that I want no part of this; the male thing, that is. Yes, I was born with that set of equipment, and no, I'm not about to get a sex change any time soon. I've just about got to grips with my post-pubescent fast-growing stubble, the deep voice and the persistent manly stink, and I'm not about to throw any of these away. But nevertheless, every time I'm forced to spend a significant amount of time with a load of men, part of me wants to go on a very long and bloody stabbing spree.
Don't get me wrong, I'm not trying to say I'm better than them. I certainly have my faults, which are so numerous one could catalogue them and end up with a work not dissimilar in length to the Encyclopaedia Brittanica, although much less cultured and with more nose-picking. It's just that their little quirks have become the traditional model for being a man; the male stereotype. The beer-swilling, woman-kitchen-banishing, foreplay-denying, oral-sex-fearing, belching, farting, football-worshipping monstrosity. Who calls his mates on the train and long-distance leers with them.
What is it that makes us bastards? It can't be hormones, because I'm not a serial cheater, or an oggler, or a sexist or a pig. At least, I try my very hardest not to be. And I'm sure a lot of you out there agree with me, and hate that you're identified with that large body of men who continue to bring down our gender. We're like an underclass of maleness, forced to contend with the same all-ecompassing name, painting us all with the same brush; why should we, when they're all bastards, be forced to identify ourselves as "men"? We need to take a stand.
Myn.
You heard me. Say it yourself a couple of times: myn myn myn. Roll it around the top of your mouth, get used to it, become best friends with it even, because I think it's the perfect solution. It's close enough to the original, but makes the point that we aren't the same; we don't want to be, and we won't. And it brings us closer to our sisters, the womyn; we will be like siblings in arms (brythers and systers, if you will). The feminists and the neo-masculinists, as one, will inherit the Earth.
"The problem with doing her in the arse is I'll get shit on my cock," the Londoner shouts down his phone while the elderly lady next to him pretends to concentrate on her knitting. Don't worry, granny. Don't worry. Come the revolution, he will be the first to go.
tehehe
moi**
"She's got great tits. I mean, really, great tits."
Mobile phones are great inventions. Useful to the core, they let you phone anyone from anywhere, and have therefore liberated a whole generation of people; to a certain extent they've even made them safer. Perhaps more importantly, though, they've given us an opportunity to eavesdrop the previously private conversations of people around us. Thanks to those bundles of Finnish plastic joy, we can understand our society just that little bit better - often against our will. In trains and buses we are captive audiences for inane conversation.
I've been spending a lot of time on trains lately. Listening to a lot of conversations.
"I want to do her in the arse," the overweight Londoner two rows down from me concluded, inbetween puffs on his seventh cigarette since leaving Kings Cross station. "I think I've got a chance, too ... yeah, tomorrow night when we go out. I've just got to make sure I get her really drunk ... I think she'd be up for it, ha ha ... You dirty bastard." His ringtone was a Nokiatised, bloopy version of Dueling Banjos. Not only this, but he sang along to it as it rang.
Lately I've been thinking that I want no part of this; the male thing, that is. Yes, I was born with that set of equipment, and no, I'm not about to get a sex change any time soon. I've just about got to grips with my post-pubescent fast-growing stubble, the deep voice and the persistent manly stink, and I'm not about to throw any of these away. But nevertheless, every time I'm forced to spend a significant amount of time with a load of men, part of me wants to go on a very long and bloody stabbing spree.
Don't get me wrong, I'm not trying to say I'm better than them. I certainly have my faults, which are so numerous one could catalogue them and end up with a work not dissimilar in length to the Encyclopaedia Brittanica, although much less cultured and with more nose-picking. It's just that their little quirks have become the traditional model for being a man; the male stereotype. The beer-swilling, woman-kitchen-banishing, foreplay-denying, oral-sex-fearing, belching, farting, football-worshipping monstrosity. Who calls his mates on the train and long-distance leers with them.
What is it that makes us bastards? It can't be hormones, because I'm not a serial cheater, or an oggler, or a sexist or a pig. At least, I try my very hardest not to be. And I'm sure a lot of you out there agree with me, and hate that you're identified with that large body of men who continue to bring down our gender. We're like an underclass of maleness, forced to contend with the same all-ecompassing name, painting us all with the same brush; why should we, when they're all bastards, be forced to identify ourselves as "men"? We need to take a stand.
Myn.
You heard me. Say it yourself a couple of times: myn myn myn. Roll it around the top of your mouth, get used to it, become best friends with it even, because I think it's the perfect solution. It's close enough to the original, but makes the point that we aren't the same; we don't want to be, and we won't. And it brings us closer to our sisters, the womyn; we will be like siblings in arms (brythers and systers, if you will). The feminists and the neo-masculinists, as one, will inherit the Earth.
"The problem with doing her in the arse is I'll get shit on my cock," the Londoner shouts down his phone while the elderly lady next to him pretends to concentrate on her knitting. Don't worry, granny. Don't worry. Come the revolution, he will be the first to go.
tehehe
moi**